She became angry with herself. She had, by the magic of recollection, set the picture of the typhoon between herself and her table companions: the terrible rollers thundering on the white shore, the deafening bellow of the wind, the bending and snapping palms, the thatches of the native huts scattering inland, the blur of sand dust, and those two outcasts defying the elements. " Sheppard started to his feet. The bump was coarse and didn’t feel right. She trailed him to his apartment and a black door that read 727 in solemn gold-tone lettering. " "And perish upon the gibbet," rejoined Jonathan contemptuously.
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